Stolen from a friend
In honor of the upcoming holiday, where we tend to gorge ourselves on vast amounts of delicious food, I'd like to offer a few words of advice. I will dispense with this wisdom... now. (Many thanks to Mary Schmich for her "Wear Sunscreen" column.)
Eat Turkey.
*cue soothing techno beat by Baz Lurhmann*
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, eating turkey would be it. The long-term benefits of turkey have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your appetite. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your appetite until it's faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how much you really ate. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the dryness of the turkey. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Eat one thing every day that scares you.
Chew.
Don't be reckless with other people's flatware. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on yams. Sometimes they're present, sometimes they're not. The dinner is long and, in the end, there are always green beans.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old place-settings. Throw away your old wishbones.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to put on your plate. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to eat. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll host the dinner, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have ham as well, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll server twenty, maybe you'll order Boston Market for dinner one year. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
Enjoy your fork. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Unbutton the top of your pants, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read cooking magazines. They will only make you feel hungry.
Invite your parents over for dinner. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to come to dinner with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Eat in New York City once, but leave before it makes you full. Eat in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you sick. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Cakes will rise. Turkeys will baste. You, too, will get full. And when you do, you'll
Fantasize that when you were young, cakes were moist, turkeys were self-basting and children sat at the small table.
Sit at the small table.
Don't expect anyone else to serve you. Maybe you have a butler. Maybe you'll have a maid. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your cooking time or by the time you're ready to serve it will be overdone.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the turkey.
This message is private and confidential. If you have received it in error, please notify the sender and remove it from your system.
Eat Turkey.
*cue soothing techno beat by Baz Lurhmann*
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, eating turkey would be it. The long-term benefits of turkey have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the power and beauty of your appetite. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your appetite until it's faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how much you really ate. You are not as fat as you imagine.
Don't worry about the dryness of the turkey. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
Eat one thing every day that scares you.
Chew.
Don't be reckless with other people's flatware. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
Floss.
Don't waste your time on yams. Sometimes they're present, sometimes they're not. The dinner is long and, in the end, there are always green beans.
Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old place-settings. Throw away your old wishbones.
Stretch.
Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to put on your plate. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to eat. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.
Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.
Maybe you'll host the dinner, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have ham as well, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll server twenty, maybe you'll order Boston Market for dinner one year. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
Enjoy your fork. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.
Unbutton the top of your pants, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
Do not read cooking magazines. They will only make you feel hungry.
Invite your parents over for dinner. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to come to dinner with you in the future.
Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.
Eat in New York City once, but leave before it makes you full. Eat in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you sick. Travel.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Cakes will rise. Turkeys will baste. You, too, will get full. And when you do, you'll
Fantasize that when you were young, cakes were moist, turkeys were self-basting and children sat at the small table.
Sit at the small table.
Don't expect anyone else to serve you. Maybe you have a butler. Maybe you'll have a maid. But you never know when either one might run out.
Don't mess too much with your cooking time or by the time you're ready to serve it will be overdone.
Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.
But trust me on the turkey.
This message is private and confidential. If you have received it in error, please notify the sender and remove it from your system.